


Youthful Arrogance

by juliafied



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Elvhen Pantheon, Elvhenan, F/M, Halamshiral (Dragon Age), Memories, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:00:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliafied/pseuds/juliafied
Summary: While waiting for Inquisitor Lavellan to impress the nobles at Halamshiral, Solas reflects on a feast held in his honour, newly-named Champion of Mythal, where he experienced first-hand the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates events such as these.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Youthful Arrogance

Solas watched the Inquisitor Lavellan’s face as she walked away towards the ballroom, the familiar pinch between her eyebrows returning, where it had smoothed momentarily while they talked. A mistake, of course, though he could hardly blame her. She had already far exceeded any expectation that he could have had of a Dalish woman, never having attended court, playing the Grand Game, even if her frustrated expression would be read by many of the nobles and talked about within the hour.

From his designated spot, he could see her go on to chat briefly with a few female nobles dressed in shades of deep blue sky and silver birch, who all giggled as they obviously stared at her vallaslin. No doubt it was intentional, meant to remind her of her place as a foreigner and an elf, but she only smiled coolly at whatever they said and bowed before stepping away. Her indifference was well-executed, especially given the annoyance he knew she would be feeling. He’d ask about it later, he decided, hopefully while she rested her head on his bare chest after he snuck into the quarters she’d been given. The role of Inquisitor sat heavy on her shoulders, and she seldom complained, though she sorely needed an outlet. Solas was happy to serve as such.

After Aeneris left, one of the noblewomen whispered something in another’s ear, and Solas noticed her brush her hand ever so momentarily against the other’s waist. They separated, no doubt to meet later in some pre-arranged spot. Solas wondered if either of them would be blackmailed with information about this encounter later.

He sighed, leaning against the statue to his right, and reached for his glass on a nearby table. The wine was quite good; evidently, the terroir had improved considerably in the nearly three thousand years since he had last drunk wine made from grapes of this region. Then again, refining the imbibing of grape wine appeared to have been a mostly human effort, as honey mead and plum wine had been much more popular in his time. The place that was now called Halamshiral had looked different, then, too.

Picking up his glass, Solas took a turn about the room, trying to catch any bits of gossip that could be useful. Some whispers about Duchess Florianne taking too long to return from her rooms, he filed away to tell Aeneris about later. Two men conversed seriously in the corner but grew silent as he passed by. He walked out onto the terrace, only garnering a few curious looks from some nobles who happened to be coming back in at the same time. After sparing a glance towards Dorian, who was perfunctorily exchanging quips with some masked noble, he leaned against the cool marble of the railing, looking out onto the grounds below, rife with party-goers, servants, and the occasional gasp as someone caught a glimpse of the famed Inquisitor. Solas couldn’t help but recall a time when it had been he who elicited such excitement. It had seemed so bothersome to feast at the time, when he was younger and more impulsive and saw little point in such gatherings, though he had enjoyed the attention. He smiled bittersweetly, now desperately wishing he could turn the corner and see the People in shimmering silks and glittering gold instead of masked Orlesians in heavy velvet and fur trim.

It had been Mythal’s idea, he remembered, as he walked back to his designated post by the statue. A gathering of the People to commemorate some battle or other, and to celebrate the naming of a new Champion of the All-Mother…

* * *

“A grand feast,” declared Mythal, with a laugh that sparkled. “In a fortnight. It will cheer up Andruil,” she added with a hint of amusement, as she examined the trees in the fruit garden. Solas frowned.

“Andruil is angry because of your disagreement at the Council. A feast could hardly appease her,” he remarked pointedly. He heard her tinkling laugh again.

“To Andruil, a feast _is_ a council meeting. You have much to learn, Champion. I have seen your aptitude at court, of course, but you could do with an exercise in casual politics.”

He hummed doubtingly, but let it go. “I am at your service, Mirtha’meas,” he acquiesced, demurely addressing by her honored title. Mythal encouraged disagreement from those who served her in private, but it would not do to test her patience.

She nodded, and went back to her inspection, taking one dark, bulbous fruit in hand and biting into it delicately, the juices dripping down her ornamented fingers. “Besides, the figs are almost ready, which will go excellently with the dead animals Andruil always insists on bringing.”

Now, it was Solas’ turn to laugh. “The cooks generally manage to figure out what to do with them.”

“Yes, praise the Titans for that. You are excused, Solas.”

With that, the fruit turned to smoke in her hand and she waved him away. For the next two weeks, he attended to his regular duties, while spending his evenings organizing warriors to protect the Lady Mythal during the event, as was expected of her Champion. When the day of the feast arrived, he met Mythal and her entourage of beautiful elvhen women in the courtyard, to instruct them on the security details of the evening. A few of the newer ones giggled at his arrival; he was aware of how he looked, thick dark braids twisted in an elaborate style, the gold armour he had conjured this morning gleaming in the midday sun, the luxurious white fur sash he had won in the last hunt looking soft enough to touch. Every part the Champion of Mythal, Protector of the All-Mother. He smirked, pleased with their attention, at those who laughed and proceeded to explain the security plan. Mythal, clad in flowing layers of blue and green silken material filigreed with spiderweb-like lines of silver, watched him throughout, her expression impassable. Once the entourage was dismissed, Solas stayed to discuss final details with her.

“You will do well,” Mythal mentioned at the end, after appraising him thoroughly. “Even my husband will be jealous.” Solas coloured at that, and Mythal laughed. “Do not pay his provocations any mind, Champion. Elgar’nan cannot help but bully all my champions. It is his way.” After a meaningful look, she was gone in a sweep of fabric.

Solas thought of her previous champion, a tall and slender woman who had been gifted to Mythal by Andruil, tattooed from head to foot and wielding an enormous ironbark bow. He could hardly imagine her being intimidated by the All-Father. She had been slain by one of Ghilan’nain’s creations on Andruil’s annual hunt a decade ago. Mythal had selected Solas as her champion from among the eligible warriors at court after a shortened five years of mourning, causing some rumours as to the nature of their relationship to arise. No doubt this would be a topic of discussion at the banquet tonight.

By the time the sun dropped low in the sky, floating balls of light and the spirits of Joy that amused themselves by following them had filled the air in Mythal’s palace grounds. The efforts of the servants had yielded luxurious arrangements of rare and unusual blooms, conjured to curl around each pillar, bannister, and column in the palace. Solas stood behind one such column as he waited, along with the guests, for Mythal’s appearance. It’s wouldn’t be long, now.

As Mythal descended the impressive staircase in the main hall, in a dress that mimicked the materials of the one he had seen earlier but was denser, the multiple layers floating freely above her as if she was underwater. He could see that she had hired the foremost expert on starlight simulation to style her hair, whose work, in the form of tiny jewels that appeared lit from within, could be seen adorning the Evanuris’ golden locks, twisted in an elaborate hairstyle. Elgar’nan held her by the elbow, every bit the ominous thundercloud he was known to be at such occasions, though his own regalia was no less beautiful than Mythal’s. Solas was relieved that the stares he had been receiving while waiting for the All-Mother to arrive flicked away. He let out a steady breath and urged himself to stop tapping his toe inside of his soft halla leather shoe, hoping that no one would notice his nervousness.

He watched as the enthralled crowd, the jeweled nobility of Elvhenan, took in Mythal’s speech about the battle they were supposedly commemorating. Everyone in attendance, however, knew the real reason for the feast was to celebrate the ascension of a new Champion, and Solas couldn’t deny it was a heady feeling. Mythal was finishing up her speech to the cheers and adorations of the guests below, while the rest of the Evanuris, in all their splendour, began descending the grand staircase. As was customary when feasting for a new Champion, Mythal would soon call upon him to emerge from the anonymity of the throng, to be raised as an Honoured Elvhen, in the eyes of the Evanuris and all Elvhenan.

Soon, Mythal’s voice rang out, calling out his name, and the partygoers parted to form a semi-circle around him, facing the Evanuris.

“Solas, we the Evanuris recognize you as Champion of Mythal and grant you the title of Mirthadra Elvhen!”

The rest of the Evanuris echoed her cry, and the crowd clapped heartily. Some even glistened with shiny tears, which their servants quickly wiped away. They turned to him now, for this was the best part of the naming of a new champion. He had been thinking about it since Mythal had chosen him.

It was time for him to put on a show.

He began with a lazy flick of his wrists, which extinguished all light but the brazier by the Evanuris’ feet. Then, slowly, with no small effort, which was betrayed only by a slight clenching of his jaw, he began pulling here and there on the energy all around him, nodding to the spirits gathering, curiously observing this concentration of power. Once he felt he had enough control on the tendrils of energy he had pulled towards him, he gave them a slight tug, and the vaulted ceiling of the great hall swiftly and fluidly zipped open. The nobles gasped in response, as he maneuvered the bricks to hang effortlessly in the air, opening up the hall to the heavens. He took a calm, measured breath, and cast the maintenance of the spell to the back of his disciplined mind. There, they would not fall.

Solas turned his gaze to Mythal, who stared coolly back. Her lips twitched only when the glowing stars in her hair started to hum, and then vibrate, and finally multiply. The newly created spheres floated towards Solas and curled around his person. He smirked; they were a perfect replicate of those created by the master conjurer Mythal had hired, and what he was about to do would put the maestro’s work to shame. He gestured to the sky theatrically, and the glowing jewels shot off into the darkness, growing greater and greater in number, until, finally, they formed a living tapestry of light, glowing in the night sky. Concentrating despite the sounds of delight around him, Solas moved the lights around until they formed first a depiction of the founding of Elvhenan, twin brothers suckling a halla. The halla ran away from the twins, their lights rearranging into a herd, in the middle who could only be Ghilan’nain. At that, the Evanuris inclined her head towards him with a hint of a smile. He had done well.

Another halla separated from the herd, and the starlight followed it as it leapt between clouds. Slowly, between jumps, the halla morphed into a fearsome beast, claws sharp as daggers, wings sprouting from its sides. Suddely, a great arrow of light appeared; it pierced the animal through the heart, and, as it fell, the shape of the mighty huntress, Andruil, emerged, donned in starlight. A hawk on her shoulder, Andruil loosed another arrow, which sped along the heavens until it was caught by the shining shape of June. In his hand, the arrow grew long and flat, and June took a hammer to it in his ethereal forge. As he hammered the arrow, fast and true, sparks flew from the blade to land in a neatly-stacked pile of wood; with a gesture, Sylaise, the who had discovered fire magic many aeons ago, fanned the spark into a roaring flame. The Evanuris in question, down below, whispered something into her sister Andruil’s ear, whose signature glower had softened somewhat. That was good, Solas thought. Mythal would be pleased.

He saw that some spirits of Knowledge and Wisdom had joined the outskirts of the tapestry of light to observe casually, which he took as a good sign. Then, he made the flames of the hearth Sylaise was keeping grow larger and larger until they threatened to take up the entire night sky. Slowly, they became part of a funeral pyre, Falon’Din standing watch somberly. He was joined by his brother, Dirthamen, holding a heavy tome that he tossed into the air, opening up and appearing closer and closer, pages turning until the book landed on a scene of untold splendour: the wedding of Mythal and Elgar’nan. It had happened hundreds of years before Solas was born, but he hoped his depiction, based on his studies, did it justice. As a last flair, he dispersed the scene and then gathered all of the twinkling orbs into a glowing mass, guiding it to diffuse into lifelike shapes of all the Evanuris gathered below, to the amazement of the guests. He smiled at Sylaise’s pealing laugh as she curled her hands into her glowing apparition’s hair. Andruil admired her starlight self’s celestial bow. Mythal merely smiled at Solas.

Slowly, he allowed the lights to disperse and twinkle out, lest the Evanuris be offended by that the next conjuration of glowing light that Solas was going to summon was ostensibly made of the same material as the hallowed leaders. But first, he returned his attention briefly to the corner of his power that had been keeping the ceiling from collapsing. Rapidly, the bricks collapsed back into place, closing off the night sky, with not a brick out of place. The crowd clapped heartily then, thinking the demonstration over. Solas drew one pale finger to his lips and the nobles quieted expectantly; he was not finished yet.

Reaching out to where he had let the glowing orbs fade, he summoned them to reappear across from him, first as a silver, moonlit sphere, then infusing them with energy until sparks crackled between them, forming lines that flitted between each small ball of light. He had always favoured ice magic, himself, but it was difficult to ignore the unbridled theatrics of lightning. This was why he had selected lightning for his opponent, a shape that was slowly beginning to form, first the shoulders, then the lithe legs, then the unmistakable braids, and lastly, a staff of pure lightning.

Another gasp, as the partygoers recognized the lightning wraith as a reflection of himself.

The wraith drew its staff, as did Solas in return. They circled one another. Solas cast a barrier, a shimmering spiderweb of silver light, around the crowd’s perimeter, and allocated its maintenance to the back of his mind as he had with the bricks. He took a deep breath.

A wide arc of his staff, razor sharp ice flying at the apparition, who blasted it out of his way with a pulse of lightning. The figure, and its magic, was under Solas’ control, of course, and so he was in no real danger, but the display was an exciting demonstration of his own mastery. Blasting a few more shards of ice towards his doppelganger, Solas approached in order to engage hand-to-hand, sparks electrifying the air around them as the lightning staff hit his own. After a few blows exchanged, Solas’ strength began to flag and he prepared the finale. Leaping away lithely from the wraith, who was flinging lightning bolts cast aside easily with a wave of Solas’ hand, he raised his arms, and with them, up came the barrier, himself, and the lightning wraith. Up they floated, in a sphere of silver spiderweb silk, until they were nearly at the ceiling. It was then that with a quirk of his finger, Solas summoned a crackling ball of dense lightning to appear in the wraith’s hands, who quickly flung it upwards. A high-pitched whine was heard, growing louder and louder; Solas, floating in the air, braced himself.

Suddenly, as the whine reached a fever pitch, the orb of lightning _exploded_ , thick ropes of lightning forming a crackling, many-pointed star within the confines of Solas’ spherical barrier. This was his moment. With what was becoming immense effort, he gathered every ounce of power he had left, and blasted out a crippling wave of cold. It spread around him, and as it hit each lightning bolt, they froze in place, crackling within the ice. Gracefully, Solas dispelled the barrier and floated down, dismissing the lightning wraith; the frozen lightning bolts, he directed to shatter into tiny, palm-sized pieces, into a large silver bowl he had conjured to hold. Once his feet hit the ground, he willed himself to keep standing. He may have overexerted himself, but he would be damned if he didn’t continue to hold his head high.

The Elvhen he had captivated broke into stunned applause, which eventually gave way to cheering. The Evanuris, to their credit, clapped, Sylaise particularly loudly. Mythal waved her fingers and a gleaming crystal glass appeared in her hand – quickly filled by a servant, she toasted him with a twinkle in her eye.

“I am honoured,” Solas called out as soon as the din had quieted somewhat, “to be raised as Mithrandra Elvhen! Let my skill be a gift to all Elvhenan!”

Elegantly, he tossed the crackling frozen lightning that would never melt into the throng, who caught it easily and with delight.

This marked the end of the formalities of the evening, and the guests dispersed to fill the circle once again, the Evanuris free to mingle with their followers and admirers. Solas felt he had succeeded, though he was sure Mythal would inform him of any missteps. The Evanuris herself soon approached him, as soon as she had exchanged the proper greetings with the rest of the powerful nobles in her path to him.

He offered her his arm as the music began to play, as only her Champion (and Elgar’nan) was permitted to, and she gracefully took it, leading him into the intricate dance. She leaned towards his ear and murmured, “The wedding was a nice touch. Too simple by half, but still nice.”

Solas smirked as they spun around masterfully, other couples joining them. He had suspected an initial barb. Mythal often prefaced her praise thusly. “I am glad to have pleased you.”

The Evanuris guided a few glowing orbs away from her hair with the delicate fingers of her free hand and studied them as he gently grasped her waist to dip her backwards. “Perhaps I should have you style my hair from now on, as well.”

“Your wish is my command, All-Mother.” No glibness in his voice, either. This was a subtle dig at the master, and a recognition of his talents.

She stopped their dance, suddenly, and laid a cool hand on his muscled forearm, looking deeply into his blue eyes with her own green. “Well-done, Solas.” With that, she floated off, her many skirts, the colour of the sea, following suit.

This was Solas’ cue to weave through the crowd, an abundance of compliments floating his way, from admirers and enemies alike, most genuine, some half-hearted, others filled with jealousy. Aware of the easy charm that dripped from him this evening, he used it to his advantage, making friends of neutral supporters and melting those that were iciest towards him, however minutely. The hours passed gloriously, exquisite food and drink abounded, and the music grew soft and sensuous as the guests dispersed to smaller, quieter rooms adjoining the main hall, some to rest (such gatherings often lasted a fortnight or more), others to indulge in more… carnal delights. He caught the gaze of a tall, slender Elvhen woman on her way to a room filled with red velvet, noticing the dark, thick locks that fell luxuriously to the top of her buttocks. She wore what could barely be called a dress, more like a sheer drape of gold silken fabric that left her back and shoulders open. She curled the edge of her mouth, waiting for him to follow, but he merely smirked and continued on his trajectory. Perhaps he would see her there later.

His destination was Andruil, surrounded by her followers, regaling them with a story of some great hunt or other. As he approached, she glanced at him but finished the story, then waved her admirers away and draped an arm around Solas’ shoulders. She was quite drunk uncharacteristically early, he realized as she slurred into his ear. Mythal, seeing his precarious position, quirked an eyebrow from across the room, but he merely shrugged. It was an opportunity to smooth things over with the Evanuris, on behalf of his mistress.

“What great beast did you have me hunt, Champion of the All-Mother?”

“Whatever beast your imagination calls for, o great huntress.” He chose his words carefully; Andruil was notoriously quick-tempered, especially when imbibing the plum spirits that her serving man kept refilling her cup with. Luckily for him, she merely grunted and gestured for more, declaring, “I shall hunt a dragon with a lion’s head, next. Ghilan’nain!” The nearby Evanuris rolled her eyes but approached at Andruil’s call. “Please, give me this gift, my love.”

Ghilan’nain pressed her lips to the hand Andruil had on Solas’ shoulder, and with a pointed look, grasped it herself, freeing him. “With pleasure,” she murmured in the huntress’s ear, and louder, “Congratulations, Champion. Your display was impressive.”

Solas restrained himself from sighing with relief, both at Andruil’s mercy and Ghilan’nain’s praise, and thanked her profusely. He was pleased to see Andruil relaxed and happy. Perhaps this gathering would seal the rift between her and Mythal, as his mistress had wanted. He stood at attention, respectfully watching as the two Evanuris chatted softly, not permitted to leave unless dismissed. Eventually, Andruil’s whispers turned to moans and Ghilan’nain waved him away impatiently. Perhaps now he could visit the velvet room.

On his way there, Solas bowed deeply as he crossed Mythal’s path. She looked at his path and chuckled softly. “I see Andruil is pleased. Enjoy yourself, Solas. You have done well.”

He intended to do exactly that, and his feet soon crossed the threshold into the velvet room.

* * *

The bell calling guests to the ballroom startled Solas out of his reminiscing. All the better; the memory was a fond one, but he had no wish to revisit that particular part of the evening. He preferred not to recall the days when youthful arrogance had him believe that he had all the time in the world to spend on meaningless matters of the flesh. With a sigh, he descended the staircase, towards the door to the ballroom, no one paying him any mind other than with occasional curious glances. He wondered what Aeneris would have thought of young Solas at Mythal’s feast, youthful arrogance and all. He wished he could show her just how impressive he could be, no shabby apostate, but a glorious warrior of Elvhenan.

Hours later, after they had caught Celine’s would-be killer, and Aeneris had brokered a tenuous peace in the mighty Orlesian Empire, Solas would have to settle for a dance, out on a balcony where the exhausted Inquisitor finally let out a breath that she’d been holding since they arrived. This, too, was simpler than he was capable of, Aeneris content to simply press her cheek to his own and sway, out of step with the music, his hand on the small of her back. And when she at last nuzzled into his chest and fell asleep almost immediately, safely in the Inquisitor’s quarters at Halamshiral, Solas had no wish to impress her. Age’s wisdom told him to cherish these moments when what he was, what he claimed to be, were enough.


End file.
